Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Clown Tear Junkies > Status Update

“It’s not shit. It’s Mozart. I like it loud. Why don’t you turn that crap off and listen to Mozart with me? Mozart’s music is immeasurably superior to Salieri’s. Everyone knows that. Salieri sucks a big blue dick. The only reason you even know Salieri existed is because of that retarded Amadeus movie. You know what I think? I think you still want to replace me with a living Salieri marionette.

“Hi-ya!” she screamed as she karate chopped the back of Grandma’s head, perfectly splitting the octogenarian in half, wheelchair and all. The two halves of Grandma slowly fell away from each other like a split log, spilling blood, organs, feces, chyme, and cancer everywhere.
“Verrrry good, dearie,” Grandma said in her sweet, gravelly granny voice.

“Paps ISN’T gay. He just happens to be freakishly well-hung, so much so that the penises depicted in this magazine—though enormous by normal standards—are quite small compared to his. My grandpa likes looking at Massive Mouthwatering Cocks magazine only because he thinks it’s funny. He enjoys flipping through the pages and laughing at all the ‘small’ penises. And even if he was gay, what’s it to you?

“Please don’t be an unkind person to me and my grandpa, and please don’t be cross with us.”
There was a time when I used to say things like “Why are you doing this to us?” and “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” and “What did we ever to do you?” but that was many moons ago. These days, I was too damn tired to attempt reasoning with anyone anymore. The Statement was all I had left.

“Oh, my God, what a darling child you are!” the woman effused. “You’re just so, so...so cute!” With that, the little old lady fell to her knees, her eyes boiling and running out of their sockets, blood and brains jetting from her ears and nostrils as her skull imploded from the sheer cuteness of the girl. Her body slumped onto the sidewalk.

Gerardooooooh . . . Eduardooooooh . . . Ricardooooooh
Everyone loves Gerardoooooooh.
Yo, Gerardo my nigga.
Yo, Gerardo on da muthafuckin’ trigga.
Everyone loves Gerardoooooooh.
Baby juggalos and bronies,
All the bustas and the homies,
Everyone loves Gerardoooooooh.

The Scream (the movie) was a box office smash, spawning a franchise of nine sequels. The Scream starred in seven of those ten films. For a while there, he was living the life. Fame. Money. Women. Drugs. Booze. Regular appearances on the talk show circuit. Parties at the Playboy Mansion. A million followers on Twitter. The whole nine.

“Sup, bro. It’s me again. Hey, man, I hope you’re not still pissed about last Friday. Listen, I didn’t mean what I said about those goth chicks you hooked up with. They were definitely nines, not sevens. Maybe even nine-and-a-halfs! Call me back when you get this, alpha wolf.”
But to no avail.

“Hey, yo, The Scream. It’s me. Hey, I missed you on the bridge last Friday. Holla back when you get this, assassin.”
“Hey, it’s me. Just checkin’ in, dude. Hope nothing bad happened to you. Hit me back when you get this, money man.”

“Get lost, grandpa. Go back to your nursing home. The night staff’s probably out looking for you right now.”
That one sort of stung me deep. Like a pissed-off wasp trapped up the butt.
“Grandpa?” I said. “I’m only fifty. And fifty is the new forty, which is the new thirty, which is the new twenty. So that means I’m fuckin’ twenty years old! Why, I’m younger than you, ya old shoe!"